


Disenchanted

by genetic_design



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating will change, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genetic_design/pseuds/genetic_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time to happily ever after — isn't that how the story goes?</p><p>A Fae prince forms a friendship with a mortal child, and it should be the beginning of a wonderful tale.</p><p>Fate, however, has other plans for them.</p><p> </p><p>Hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disenchanted

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've been playing around with for quite some time. Life has been stressful as of late, so I decided to lose myself in a fantasy world for a little while. This is the result. I hope you all like it, since I'm having such a blast writing it.
> 
> The rating will go up with the first chapter. For now, I've tagged this as general, since the prologue only deals with Dean and Cas as children. Additional characters and tags will be added as the story progresses, etc, etc.
> 
>  **Please note** that this fic will, at times, deal with  dark and potentially triggering themes, some graphic and some not. Regardless of the level of intensity/description, I will list specific warnings for each individual chapter.
> 
> That being said...
> 
> This fic was inspired by old fairy tales and a dear friend of mine, and is dedicated to all who still hold to the belief that there truly is a little magic left in this world.

Autumn always seems to have one of those crisp, chilled scents about it; the kind that invades the nose, a slight sting travelling upwards with the inhaled breeze. Sharp, and undeniably welcome, because it signifies the beginning of an end. It is the slow, sultry days of summer melting into cooler nights, painting the horizon with swirling gusts of brittle leaves in hues of fertile earth and vibrant fire. A hint of the changes to come.

And for two slight beings caught up in the midst of it all, this particular Autumn means freedom. Here, on the sparse edge of the vast forest, away from the prying eyes of their families and the mundane toil of the outside world, they are free to become anything their imaginations can create. Kings of all mankind, wearing crowns fashioned of tree bark, ruling their land with iron fists. Wizards waging battle against vicious ogres and frightful trolls, striking down their enemies with shouted words and will.

Today they are courageous, noble knights from a far-away kingdom, tasked with the most dangerous of quests: Rescuing the fairest maiden in all the land and slaying her keeper — a fearsome, fire-breathing dragon. The journey has been harsh, fraught with peril and surprise attacks by roadside bandits. They have braved the treacherous trail that winds round Kalaros, speaking in hushed tones and taking quiet, careful steps, lest they wake its vengeful namesake — the slumbering god who lies beneath the mountain. The barren trail twists and curves to the tip of Kalaros' snow-capped summit, then plunges downwards into the Fen, a vast marshland where a single misstep can cause you to slip from the raised, narrow walkway and tumble to the mire below, which will quickly suck you in and swallow you whole. It took four days to slog through the damp, murky landscape; four miserable, sodden days spent cursing the never-ceasing frigid drizzle, and three mostly sleepless nights spent listening to the nightmarish creatures prowling in the darkness just out of sight.

Finally, they reached the outskirts of Eindel, home to a once rich and thriving merchant city, the largest in the realm of Onaria. Its peoples were renowned metalsmiths and jewel crafters of unsurpassed skill, rivaled only by the svartalves who had taught them their trade. Eindel had stood in glittering glory, a wondrous place forged of stone and metal and glass, with towers that rose to impossible, dizzying heights. It had also hosted the densest concentration of magic users in all of Caleon — magic had not been a thing to fear in those days — who kept the city alit with delicate, floating spheres of silver, which were shaped by the metalworkers and contained sparks of multi-coloured lights.

But that was before the dragon came. Now the city lays in waste, its intricate towers tarnished by age, some melted to the ground by great plumes of fire. Shops have crumbled and sagged, houses have been burnt or crushed flat. The long-forgotten ruins of old King Gelan's home, lair of the thieving dragon and the young children's ultimate destination, can be seen over the blackened treetops of the forest that separates the castle from Eindel.

The boys creep forward along a well-travelled footpath, cautiously scouting the area for signs of trouble. Grass and wild weeds grow tall further down the path, obscuring the trunks of the thickening trees from sight — creating perfect hiding spots for potential robbers. The smaller boy crouches low to the ground, holding up a fist to warn his companion of the impending danger.

Green eyes dancing with excitement, he hisses, "Don't move," even though his friend has already frozen in place.

Tanned cheeks flush in anticipation, he draws his imaginary sword from the leather loop around his belt in one fluid motion. He throws a quick glance over his shoulder, checking that his friend's weapon is at the ready as well. Satisfied, he jerks his chin in a determined nod and springs up from the path, charging ahead with a wordless cry.

The older child sprints forward to join the skirmish, cutting down an enemy attempting to attack his companion from behind. The blond grins in thanks and dispatches his own opponent with a sweeping stroke of his sword. They move back to back, and together they make quick work of the remaining bandits. When the last enemy falls, the shorter of the pair cheers and sheathes his sword.

"Hurry," he says, racing back to the path. "There may be more of them."

Struggling to catch his breath, the taller boy sinks down to his knees. "Wait," he says between gasps, "hold on."

Kneeling takes far too much effort. Sucking in a great lungful of air, he lets himself fall backwards, not caring how the damp coating the grass seeps through his clothing. He blows a strand of sweat-curled black hair out of his piercing blue eyes, too weary to raise a hand and brush it away.

A moment's respite might be too much to ask for, however, since his companion scoffs, leaps over him, and dashes several feet away.

"We can't stop now," the younger child cries out, pointing at a rotting, fallen tree in front of him. "We'll be at the castle once we cross this bridge. The princess still needs saving from the monster, Cas. She can't very well rescue herself if she doesn't have an enchanted sword capable of piercing a dragon's armour."

Content to remain stretched out along the ground, the dark-haired boy merely arches an elegant eyebrow. "I am certain the princess will remain locked away in her tower," he says, "safe from harm, for a short while longer. As for the dragon, well, how am I supposed to help you slay such a terrible creature when I can hardly take a proper breath?"

"Has your horse tired?"

"My horse is fine." Castiel bites back a smile at the snark in his friend's voice. "I have tired. Give me a second, will you?"

Taking the sudden silence for consent, he lets his eyes slip shut against the brightness of the afternoon. Wind rustles through the trees, bringing the chill of Autumn's grasping fingers, and he relishes the way the sun kisses his exposed skin, grateful for its warmth.

Peaceful quiet never lasts for long, though, and soon a barrage of grumbled complaints pepper the air. Not even five minutes later, the smaller boy stomps back to him, blocking the sunlight and casting a shadow on his face.

 _Let him stand there forever_ , Castiel thinks. He finally cracks an eye open at a drawn out groan, then snorts at the sight of his friend looming over him, hands fisted against his hips.

"Yes, Dean?"

"Come on," Dean says. "Do you have any idea how boring this is?"

"For you, perhaps." Castiel shrugs. "I'm enjoying myself."

Frustrated, Dean rakes a hand through his dirty blonde hair, then glares down at the taller boy. "Fine," he says, turning in the direction of the bridge. "I'll save the princess without you, then. You'll only have yourself to blame when I'm the one rewarded with riches for bringing her home. Have a nice nap, lazy bones, hope the dragon doesn't eat you while you're asleep. Or me."

Castiel sighs, forcing himself into a sitting position. He reaches out to snag the hem of Dean's shirt when he starts to stomp off, causing the blonde to stumble to a halt. Not wishing to incite his friend further, he swallows a laugh at the indignant look Dean throws him.

"I'm sorry if I have upset you," Castiel says. "It was not my intent. Sit with me for a moment?"

The younger boy pulls a face, but he flops down on the ground, and Castiel knows he has been forgiven.

"How are things with your family?" Dean asks. "Are your brothers still giving you a hard time? When Sammy's being a terror I just whollop him until he stops. 'Course, he hits me back, and then Dad gets mad 'cause we're fighting again." Dean rolls his eyes.

Castiel smiles briefly at the thought of giving Michael the same treatment. The expression slips from his face moments later, though, and he lets out a heavy sigh.

"Nothing has changed," he says, recalling the last conversation he had with his parents about the coming season. "Michael is as demanding as ever, and Luke has not yet returned from Nelgave. As for my parents, well. They still cannot understand why I do not wish to fig—" Castiel breaks off then, mentally reprimanding himself for the explanation that had almost escaped his lips.

"Duty is everything to my family," he says instead. "They do not understand why I wish to have no part in it."

The other boy nods, and Castiel feels a wash of sympathy. Dean knows a thing or two about familial duty.

"What about your father?" Castiel regrets the question as soon as he gives it life, because Dean winces before his mouth tightens to a thin line.

"Dad is as demanding as ever," Dean says, echoing Castiel's earlier response. With stiff, jerking motions, he tugs a handful of grass from the ground. "Worse, actually." The grass gets shredded into pieces. "He wants to bring Sammy in, did I tell you that? Seven years old, and our dad wants to gear him up and send him out on his stupid, personal war." His fingers curl into fists. "Sammy's just a kid, Cas, he isn't ready."

Then Dean shakes his head and relaxes his hands. The breeze carries the bits of grass away.

"Wish my mom was still here," he mutters, blinking furiously at the trees in the distance. "Then Dad wouldn't be recruiting his sons into his mad obsession to hunt down the bastard who killed her."

An angry, derisive laugh follows, and Castiel's heart twists in his chest. This isn't the first time his friend has uttered that particular sentiment, but he has never heard him quite so bitter about it before.

 _It must be because of Sam_ , he thinks. Dean would do anything to protect his little brother, but when it comes to his father... John Winchester barks a command and Dean follows it without hesitation. The desire for John's approval and the need to keep Sam shielded from the cruelties of the world are no doubt hosting a fierce conflict inside his head.

Castiel frowns. Words seem like inadequate platitudes in this situation. Especially since he cannot explain just how much he empathises. Still, he needs to do something, so he rests his hand on the other boy's knee for a few moments until Dean glances at him. Castiel smiles, attempting to convey everything he can't voice in the expression.

Dean's answering smile is crooked and a shade too brittle, too forced, but it is there nonetheless. "Can you come play with me again tomorrow?" His casual tone is betrayed by the caution that twists his mouth.

"I shall try, my friend," Castiel replies gently, hating the way the younger boy's shoulders sag. "Winter will be upon us soon. I am afraid I won't be able to continue playing with you as often as I would like. My family, they mean to begin my training on the first day of the new season, and —"

"Training for what?" Dean interrupts, perking up in curiosity.

Stars above, Castiel had not meant to let that particular bit of information slip. There are things he is not allowed to speak of, so many secrets his friend must not hear. No matter how much he trusts Dean to never betray his confidence, the boy is still a mortal, after all. Bestowing him with certain knowledge would amount to treason of the highest magnitude. A human child in possession of the lore of his kind? Castiel does not wish to imagine the consequences of such an idea.

 _Careful_ , he thinks to himself.  _Be more careful_.

"I'm sorry, I cannot tell you much," he says aloud. "I know little about it myself, only that it is extremely important and my presence is required."

Which is the truth, albeit a very inadequate one; whenever Michael attempted to broach the subject of preparation over the last several weeks, Castiel had tuned him out. As such, he has no idea what expectations will be required of him, or where he will be going (somewhere frightfully dull, he suspects), or even when he will be leaving and returning. Michael had been gone for two seasons and a week, which seemed to be the average amount of time. Luke, however, had left almost two years ago, and no one back home has heard anything from him in months.

"Oh."

Guilt settles low in his stomach as Dean shrugs with one shoulder and resumes plucking blades of yellowing grass from the dewy earth.

Castiel tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying at it as he grips the cool, metal pendant resting against his chest, covered by the thin fabric of his shirt. An old habit, one that creates a small measure of comfort when he feels ill at ease. While he can think of nothing to say that might bring his friend cheer, perhaps he can make amends another way.

A gift. One infinitely more dangerous than spilling every iota of secrecy he is sworn to. Treason does not even begin to cover this. Were anyone to ever find out about his indiscretion, they — No, best to not think of that at all.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, he grasps the black leather cord of the necklace between his fingertips and hesitates.  _Curse it_ , he decides, pulling the cord over his head.

"For you." Castiel presses the necklace into Dean's palm. "Keep it hidden, all right? Tell no one. If you ever need me, you must only hold this and speak my name. I will hear you as clear as if you were standing next to me, and I will come the first moment I am able. Consider it an early birthday gift."

Dean stares at the jewelry in his hand, fascinated by its simple beauty. Twisting silver vines surround a small circle of gleaming white metal, beaten paper thin, and a curving, scrawling design is etched across its surface.

"Wow, Cas. Thanks." He grins and slips the cord around his neck, tucking the pendant beneath his shirt. "How does it work?"

"It's a secret," Castiel responds simply, tilting his face towards the light of the sun.

Dean doesn't question the vague explanation, and they sit without speaking, enjoying each other's company in peace.

The sky overhead is a bright, clear blue, dazzling in its vibrance. Clouds drift across it almost lazily, wispy patches of white and pale grey, like streams of smoke blown from the mouth of one of the ancient gods. They billow into nebulous patterns, some indistinct and some taking the brief forms of birds in flight or crowns or a pair of interlocked staves before dispersing.

Castiel wonders if the whimsical, fickle Velania, goddess of the daytime sky, is entertaining herself by prodding the clouds into shapes. At that thought, he spots a particularly dense cloud which swirls and takes on the visage of an enormous horse, complete with a wind-tousled mane and a puff of white at its nostrils. Apparently so.

"We've rested long enough," Dean eventually says, breaking the silence, dragging Castiel's gaze away from the sky. "We should play another game."

Castiel groans. "Honestly, where do you get a hold of such energy?" Mother help him, keeping up with his friend exhausts him at times.

"It isn't my fault you're getting old. I have a different game for us to play now, want to hear about it?"

"I'm barely two years older than you," Castiel protests. "Come now, though, what have you in mind?"

Dean scrunches up his nose. "Have I ever mentioned that you talk really weird?" An amused half-smile is all that answers him.

"Well, anyway," Dean continues. "I came up with it this morning."

Leaping up, he runs to the nearest tree, where he swipes a long, broken branch from underneath its shade. He brandishes the stick like a sword at the older boy, who raises his eyebrows.

"We're going to play Fae," Dean says, baring his teeth in a wide grin.

"Fae?" Castiel detests the slight hitch in his voice, but Dean doesn't seem to notice, already lost in the new fantasy.

"Yes, and I get to play the part of the Fae. You, on the other hand, are bestowed with the lowly role of the human servant. I am going to run across you on my trip to the realms of Talaí a'r Seréin and befriend you, all the while trying to hide my identity from you, because mortal beings aren't allowed to know of the Fae's existence. What do you think?"

Hearing the name of the make-believe realm shocks Castiel into stillness. A true language of the Fae. Where on earth could Dean have learned those words?

The expression on his friend's face is so proud, so expectant, but he is at an absolute loss for what to say. This game strikes far too close to home.

Thick, heavy silence hangs in the air. He should refuse, suggest they do anything else, but what reason could he even give? Perhaps he can claim to be too tired to pretend. Not quite a lie, though it borders close enough to one for him to decide against using it. Half truths are nothing new to him, but outright lying to Dean is something he refuses to do.

Only one option left, then.

 _If doing this will make him happy_ , Castiel thinks,  _so be it_.

"An interesting choice of names for a Fae land, my friend," he finally says, and at least he does not need to feign an interest in this. Could Dean actually know? Impossible. "You came up with that all by yourself, did you?"

"No," Dean says, reluctance making him purse his lips. "I got the idea from a story Mom read to me when I was little — oh, all right, when I was younger," he corrects in response to Castiel's somewhat tense snort of laughter. "What do they mean? I just chose them because they sound nice together."

A story? Castiel has never heard of a book written by mortals which contains the language of his people.

A tight smile adorning his lips, he shakes his head at his younger companion. "Only you would name something without understanding what the words truly meant, Dean. It is an ancient language, one not many men today can still speak."

A small frown graces Dean's features as he contemplates his next question. He paces a circle around the older boy, trailing his branch behind him. It carves a simple design of indentions and scratches in the earth.

"Do you know it?"

"I have heard it, yes," Castiel says, hesitation lending a drawn out quality to the words. He should not be saying any of this. "The name is fitting," he continues, cursing his traitorous mouth, "for it roughly translates to 'Land of Enchantment'."

Dean's face brightens, clearly pleased with the name he chose. "Well, come on," he says, gathering an armful of Autumn-coloured foliage and dumping it over Castiel's head. "How can you play if you just sit there and —"

Castiel launches himself at his friend, cutting off the rest of the complaint in an exhaled grunt as Dean hits the ground, pinned beneath him.

"You may pretend to be Fae all you like," the taller boy says, "but I do believe I have the upper hand in strength, do I not?"

Dean gasps, struggling to push Castiel off his chest. "Cas, you're crushing my lungs! I can barely breathe."

"For Mother's sake, you can breathe perfectly fine. You can still speak, can't you?" Castiel waves off the complaint and stands. "What a shame that you could," he teases, hauling a now scowling Dean to his feet.

Huffing, Dean stalks away.

"Don't be so put off, dear friend," Castiel calls, hurrying after him. "I was merely joking, you know that. For now, let us continue the game you so cleverly thought of, as it will not be long until I have to leave. We shall make the most of our time left here."

"Fine." Dean sighs. "Come this way, I saw a place we could pretend for the Fae game earlier."

Laughter soon begins to echo around the trees as the two friends dart across the rough earth, playing their games — as small children are wont to do — to their hearts' content. For the rest of the fast approaching sunset, they fly through the forest and stumble over exposed roots, faces stained pink from their antics. When the sun eventually sinks below the horizon, they race towards the dirt trail which leads back to the town, bickering over who reached it first.

Neither boy notices the dark figure trailing behind them, slinking amongst the shadows cast by the trees, or the glow of its luminous yellow eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [tumblr](http://the-caitastrophe.tumblr.com); we can talk about silly, oblivious, made for each other boys.


End file.
